


Convincing

by kihadu



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Dragon Age Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 10:03:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kihadu/pseuds/kihadu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>DA K-meme prompt: Zevran doesn't pursue Fenris, and Fenris isn't so great at the flirting thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Original k-meme post](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/8832.html?thread=35567488#t35567488)

They go up the mountain, and it is, quite frankly, a miserable affair. But everyone knew that it would be. Everyone hates the mountain, nearly as much as they hate the Wounded Coast, nearly as much as they hate the city itself, the great stinking heap beside the water, grooves worn into the stone to carry the blood of the million slaves that passed through its gates.

It’s worse for the snow that’s not quite snow, melting as soon as it touches the ground and turning the dirt into mud. Winter’s only just started, and it’s going to be a bad one this year. Fenris shivers down into his clothes as best he can, thinking of his warm fire and warmer bed, of hot wine.

“Maker’s balls,” growls Varric, and normally Sebastian would say something when one of them blasphemes, but today he only blows on his hands and rubs them together. They all glare a moment at Hawke, but she’s looting bodies and not paying attention. She’s whistling, as though they didn’t just battle a strange monster and a horde of giant spiders.

They’re still complaining when the elf arrives, smirking and bowing to Hawke, who straightens and tilts her head at him. Varric and Fenris share a look as if to say, who is this pompous twat. Zevran winks at them and flirts with Hawke who, for her part, only laughs a bit nervously and scrubs at her hair, then quickly turns to introduce the lot of them.

“Sebastian Vael, my my my, I thought you dead, or at least disappeared.” The elf laughs. “Though I suppose living in Kirkwall is like being dead, yes?”

“Seb here can hold his own,” says Hawke. “Good man to have beside you in a fight.”

The elf runs his eyes up over the armoured man, and it’s quite clear that he’d like the priest to beside him in plenty of other situations, too. Sebastian shifts, coughs, and says, “let me introduce you to Fenris.”

Those eyes.

They pin Fenris, and he feels… Not as though he’s for sale, but definitely as though he’s for something. Like he’s being being pulled apart from the inside by hands that want nothing more than to give him pleasure.

He balls his hands into fists to steady himself.

“Fenris,” repeats the elf, rolling the name off his tongue. “Such a brutal name. And that sword looks extremely deadly.” It’s a strange sort of flirtation, but Fenris kills people for money and so does this man, apparently, so blood and good steel is all they really have. Anyway, Fenris has sat beside Merrill flirting with one of the alienage elves, and probably nothing will ever be quite so strange as that. Fenris does not mean to, but his eyes wander a little lower, up over those legs…

“How in Maker’s name has he not frozen his tits off?” growls Varric. He’s done up his shirt all the way to his collar, and Fenris didn’t even know that it could do that. Fenris is momentarily irritated by the elf’s skirt. It starts too soon, hiding too much leg.

“Oi, what’s the game?” blurts Varric as the elf suddenly turns and falls in beside Hawke.

“I thought we were here to catch him,” adds Sebastian. A few flakes are dropping again, and Fenris’ toes are freezing. He wonders how quickly one can get frostbite.

“Nuncio’s trying to play us,” says Hawke. “Zevran is going to help us bring him down.”

“And we’re trusting that elf because he made such a wonderful first impression?” growls Varric. Hawke laughs.

“You’re jealous that he didn’t flirt with you.”

The elf - Zevran, Fenris missed that introduction through focusing on the cold of his fingertips - laughs along with Hawke and looks down at Varric. “I am happy to rectify that if you like.”

“You’ll meet Bianca if you even try.” Zevran looks askance of Fenris, who is surprised to be looked at, then rolls his eyes in response to Varric’s taunting.

“Varric’s point is sound,” says Sebastian. “He seems suspicious, and I’m not sure we should trust him.”

“It’s done, now,” Fenris says firmly. His toes curl in the cold mud. “We should move on.”

The others grumble, but Hawke gives him a small smile and that helps, a little, and it seems that by siding with the elf Zevran is going to walk beside him, and that’s not so bad. It’s difficult to admire his looks from here, but Isabela walks beside him to tease him, and Hawke walks beside him when the others are being too irritating, so it’s nice to have a companion who’s friendly and flirty and doesn’t flinch awkwardly away from saying the wrong thing.

“Do you come here often?”

“Too often,” growls Fenris. “This place is forsaken.” He wonders if the Fade would be any warmer than it is here.

“Oh, it could be worse,” says Zevran blithely. “Your darkspawn population isn’t as high as Ferelden’s.”

“I’d wager we have more blood mages.” He spits the words, and Zevran gives him a long, sideways look. Fenris wants to take the venom back, to temper himself and appear, what? Friendly and peaceful, as though he doesn’t wear spikes across his very hands to keep people from touching him?

“Perhaps,” says Zevran. “Can hardly swing a cat in Ferelden for fear of hitting a darkspawn, which is far worse, hm?”

“Isn’t that the point?” interrupts Hawke. “Hitting darkspawn?”

“I didn’t think there were many cats in Ferelden,” says Varric. “Don’t the dogs eat them?”

“Temmy would never,” says Hawke, aghast.

“Anders would have her guts for garters,” says Varric. “And you’d be out on the street without a pretty mage to warm your bed.”

Sebastian, unsurprisingly, immediately interrupts. “Can we not talk of warming beds? It’s cold enough without that.”

Hawke chuckles and turns to wink at the priest. “You only have to ask and I’ll warm yours.”

The man rolls his eyes, but it’s a friendly sort of action, not the same response he gives Isabela whenever the woman flirts with him. That response is more uncomfortable. Hawke doesn’t demand the man give up his faith, but Isabela treats him like a child unaware of the choices he’s making.

Zevran comes to a sudden stop. “The camp is around the next bend. I must warn you, they are dangerous.”

“More dangerous than a dragon?” asks Hawke, a little boastfully.

Zevran doesn’t even blink, as though a dragon’s just an everyday battle. “A dragon is an enemy you can always see. These men are Crows, the finest assassins in Thedas. This will not be an easy battle.” He glances at Fenris, at the sword, no doubt making the same assumption that a lot of people make: the blade is too long and unwieldy to swing with any finesse, and in a battle like this he should perhaps step back and let the people with the small, stabby knives take centre stage. Fenris shifts from foot to foot trying to warm his toes, taking no insult from Zevran’s look. Plenty of others have underestimated him. They always learn.

 

If Hawke had any doubt in Zevran’s judgement, thirty seconds into the fight they’re all brushed aside. The fight is brutal, and her face is wiped of smiles. She calls out to all of them, commanding them as she drags them in her wake. There’s one thing to be said about Hawke, she never backs down from a fight, and the only reason she might put some distance between himself and the action is so she has the room to cast a decent-sized fireball.

Fenris purposefully ignores Zevran except to avoid hitting him, dancing lightly through the assassins and swinging his blade as easily as if it were made of bamboo. He’s scarcely panting by the time the fight is over, sweat immediately sticking cold across his skin. He pushes his hair out of his face and turns to the elf.

“We make a good team,” he says, the words tentative on his tongue. He is not used to being nice to anyone, especially not so quickly after meeting them.

“I imagine you’re very fun to dance with.”

Fenris isn’t very good at flirting. He’s just not. But he gives a small chuckle. “Perhaps we should dance together sometime.”

Zevran gives him a look, eyes sweeping from toe to head and meeting his eyes with a wink, and then Hawke, damn her, interrupts. Zevran wants to loot the bodies and scout a little to make sure that there weren’t any stragglers left out from the killing. Hawke offers to help, which Zevran shakes his head at.

“Take your elf back inside before he freezes off his toes.” Varric makes a disgruntled noise, and Zevran hastens to add, “and him, too. Dwarves like it warm.”

“Damn right we do,” says Varric.

It’s colder and nearly dark by the time they’ve trekked back down the mountain, mud freezing and the snow more hitting the ground more solidly. Varric nearly runs into the Hanged Man, and the others trudge up the eternity of stairs to get them to the top of the city.

They split up, leaving Hawke with Fenris and Sebastian heading for the Chantry.

“Wanna come in for something warm?”

“No,” says Fenris. “No doubt your mage is waiting for you, anyway.”

Hawke’s shoulders fall a little. Fenris and Anders are not exactly enemies, per se, but there’s a bitterness that laces every word Fenris speaks about the man, and whenever he’s made to actually communicate with him he always sounds as though he’d rather swallow broken glass.

“I only want a hot bath,” adds Fenris, trying to soften the words, but to no avail.

Of course, as soon as Hawke has opened the door to her mansion and found Anders in her - their - library, she cannot really remember Fenris’ habitual animosity towards her kind. She kisses Anders, and draws him in close.

“Oh, you’re so warm,” she sighs. Anders lets out a burst of magic, warming her from head to toe. “You really have to teach me how to do that. I’m only good at all-out fire. Come on. I want a bath, and I want you.”

 

Fenris washes and drinks wine until he is warm to his stomach, then he curls up in blankets in front of a fire he feeds chopped up doors. Soon he’ll be out of wood to tear from the mansion, but he doesn’t think he’ll leave here until the place is completely gutted. He lies there in a drowsy state sipping wine and thinking of that elf. The tattoos.

He’s been free long enough that he knows how to want. He knows lust and desire and he knows what it is to want a thing and he knows he is allowed to go and get it. He has never before wanted a person before. Not so strongly as this. He wants and, he thinks, he will do his very best to have. 


	2. Chapter 2

In the morning Zevran wakes and rolls and curls up into a ball again. He goes back to sleep. The Crows are dead, and it will be a while before any more will be sent after him. When he wakes again it’s midday, and the snow is a thick carpet across the city. Here, in Hightown, where he has taken a room at a small hotel across the way from the Blooming Rose, it is pristine and white. Some noble children are playing in the gardens or in the courtyards between houses, throwing snow at each other and laughing. The adults are more sedate, making slow, trudging steps through the snow.

Zevran groans at the frozen world that he’s found himself in, and quickly closes the window of his room again.

Eventually, he dresses and goes downstairs for a meal and to find out where to find Hawke. And Fenris. He wants Fenris more than Hawke, but suspects it will be more well received if he goes about it this way. He offers his services, which the woman readily accepts.

Not like _that_. Just his murderous skills. Hawke has Anders for everything else.

 

Fenris considers going to the Hanged Man, but the world outside is frozen and his feet are bare and everything is so, so cold. He has no food here, but he has a fire and he has wine, and what more does he need?

Perhaps that elf will be around.

But it is cold.

But that _elf_.

He drags himself out of bed.

 

 

“Isabela. It has been so long. Too long. What are you doing on shore? I do hope you haven’t a husband again.”

Isabela laughed. “No, never again.”

“Then what ties you to the land?”

“No ship, no money to get a ship, and well. Kirkwall is very interesting.” She draws the word out, v-e-r-y, as though it’s a particularly fine sweet she wants lingering on her tongue. “Fine women and men, and plenty to steal if you know where to look.”

Fenris opens the door to the Hanged Man and does not immediately see the two of them, sitting at a table at the back of the room. Despite the cold outside the room is a mass of bodies and the roaring fire has turned it into a sweltering stink. He goes closer to the fire, and the men sitting there grumble at him but do not complain. They know this elf, his tattoos and his sword, and they do not argue with him, not even when they are well and drunk. He warms his feet.

“No women so fine as you. And Sebastian Vael is a very fine man.”

Isabela droops, her whole body sagging with her. “He’s a damned tease. Married to Andraste. Ugh,” she takes a long drink from her mug, and then notices that Zevran is paying her no attention. She follows his eye - it’s strange that someone in the Hanged Man would catch his eye, of all places, and then she understands. “But Fenris, now.”

“He’s fine to look at,” says Zevran, watching the way the lithe, muscled legs move as Fenris shifts from foot to foot, warming himself. “And the way he fights, I did not think I would ever say that a two-hander would be so light on his feet.”

“He is terrifying,” says Isabela, in a tone that indicates that she is anything except terrified.

“Is he yours?”

The spluttered laugh is unconscious, and Isabela has to wipe away ale that’s spilled out of her mouth. “Maker, no. Fenris, he’s no one’s. He was, though. Was a slave, I mean.” When Zevran opens his mouth to say, well, sure, but he was sold, and Isabela was sold, this is Thedas and how many people are truly free, anyway? Isabela gives him a hard look that makes him shut up. “To a magister in Tevinter.”

“Oh,” says Zevran. “That complicates things.”

“He’s not exactly amicable in any case. If you want my advise you’d steer clear. He’s not even friends with Hawke, and the woman’s a puppy.”

“Oh,” Zevran repeats, watching the elf.

“I’ve been trying, for ages, but he’s all prickly. I don’t even know what colour his underwear are.” She frowns, then brightens. “Perhaps he doesn’t wear any!” Then her shoulders fall again, and she shrugs. “I don’t know if he even - he might be one of those people who just doesn’t.”

“That’s not the only explanation for not being interested in you, though you may not wish to hear it, hm?”

Isabela draws herself up and huffs a bit. “Either way,” she insists, “if you want him you’ll be playing a long game.”

Zevran frowns at the elf, who is now at the bar talking to someone with the most enormous sideburns. Fenris is very pretty. But Zevran is as petty as the wind, carried by his whims to every end of the earth. Prettiness does not have to be touched to be admired, and Zevran is sure he will find plenty of things to entertain him in this city built on the blood of slaves.

 

 

Fenris is very aware of where Zevran is. His skin seems to prickle, and he imagines Zevran looking over him, Zevran breathing, Zevran talking.

He wonders what he is talking about.

He wonders what his voice sounds like, sliding over skin, whispered close into his ear.

He wonders what the elf’s ears taste like.

“Donnic!” He interrupts the man loudly. “I’m going to sit down.”

The man follows him over, which is okay, Fenris supposes, even if the man blushes at every second word from Isabela. It turns out that he does the same with Zevran, albeit with a little extra squirming on his part. Finally, he blurts, “do all of your friends turn everything into innuendo?”

“Sebastian doesn’t,” says Fenris.

“A priest is not the best argument,” laughs Donnic. “But I take your point. What about that other one, the elf with the face?” Donnic is easy to get on with, and he’s good at cards and passable at chess. Fenris can count those he considers friends on two fingers, and one of them is Donnic.

“Merrill?” asks Isabela. “Oh, everything she says is innuendo.”

“Only when you’re listening,” says Fenris, with a roll of his eyes, though he doesn’t really know because he never really listens to Merrill. Not even to make sure that she doesn’t commit some atrocity, and when did that happen, that he began to trust Hawke, and even _Anders_ to keep their fellow mage in line.

“What is it that you do?” asks Donnic, of Zevran. “I have not seen you in these parts before.”

“That is because I do not come from these parts. I, currently, am doing nothing bar what Hawke tells me to do.”

“You have joined our merry little band, then?” asks Isabela, and Fenris wishes he’d said it. He’s too silent, too quiet. He does not know how to participate in conversation like this and it never bothered him before now.

“I feel I owe her, for aiding me against the Crows.”

“The Crows?” asks Donnic. “You mean those assassins? Why are they after you?”

“Because I belong to them,” Zevran says, very seriously. “I was sold to them as a child, and they do not like their investments to leave their flock. Not that we are sheep, I suppose. That is a bad metaphor.”

“Wolves, perhaps,” offers Fenris, giving him the closest thing Fenris manages to a smile these days. Zevran gives a small smile back and then something passes over his face and he looks away. Aveline arrives then, sitting down next to her husband and frowning at Zevran.

“Is this someone else I have to find excuses not to arrest?” Zevran laughs and shakes his head. Aveline only gets more flustered when she’s flirted with, and then suddenly she laughs and treats him how she treats Isabela: a little amused, a little irritated. As the others filter in out of the cold Zevran flirts with them, too, telling them he knows ways to warm them up, that he knew this one woman, and the things she could do… Oh, I could show you, Serrah Hawke, and if your mage-friend stopped glaring at me for more than a few seconds I could show him, too.

But he does not flirt with Fenris, and this irritates him, and he does not know how to flirt, and that irritates him more.

He is a sword, direct and simple, driving straight to the heart of things. Except in this. Except now, with Hawke’s leg pushed up against his because there’s not enough room on the bench for everyone to sit comfortably, with his knees knocking against Isabela’s and his gauntleted hands keeping his mug of piss-poor ale from being spilled over. Here, now, he cannot swing his words out widely, hoping they’ll hit his mark. He looks at Zevran, and he talks to Zevran, and he tries but he does not know what to say that is not direct. And he cannot be direct, not in front of everyone like this.

Fenris sits silently while the others tell stories, short stories of what they did that day (Merrill found a rat in her bed, caught it and painted it blue), of things they did three years ago (Anders muses on a particularly difficult surgery, and Zevran tells a story involving a donkey and a lizard and a group of Orlesian merchants).

It’s late when Anders gets up and says that he needs to check on a patient, prompting Donnic and Aveline to notice the time and rush off to their duties, Merrill to take Hawke’s offer to walk her home, and then Zevran looks at his empty mug and declares that he, too, should be heading off in case the snow comes in again. Isabela unfolds a scarf someone has left on the table, a corner soaked in ale and the rest a pretty gold colour, and wraps it around his neck. She presses her lips to his, ‘for warmth’, and doesn’t say goodbye to Fenris.

“You are leaving, too?” asks Zevran, once they are outside. “It is wise,” he adds, glancing at the grey night sky. “I fear the snow will set in again before long.”

“It already has,” Fenris points out, flakes falling lazily towards the ground. The ground is awfully cold on his bare feet, and he hisses in a breath.

“Where do you live? The alienage is that way, is it not?”

It’s a ploy on Zevran’s part to have Fenris leave, but it doesn’t work. “I live in Hightown” says Fenris. “In a mansion.”

“An elf owning a mansion in Kirkwall? Colour me surprised.”

“I do not own it,” Fenris says as he falls into step beside the elf. “I, uh, have borrowed it. It belonged to my former master. It is better than nothing.” Though, of course, Hawke had offered a place in her mansion, where he does not have to carve up doors to light fires, and the bedsheets are always neatly clean and folded. So if he did not have Danarius’ mansion he would not be out on the street, but he cannot give up something that is even only slightly his.

The steps are very cold, the snow crunching under Zevran’s boots and sliding between Fenris’ toes. At least the stink of the town is muted.

“Aren’t you cold?” asks Zevran, looking down at Fenris’ feet. The white lines blend with the snow.

Zevran wants to lick - he pushes that thought away, because Isabela never lies. Not about important things, like who to bring to bed and when to get the fuck out of dodge.

“Aren’t you?” counters Fenris. “What you’re wearing, it’s a very good look,” he hastens to add. “You just look very cold.” He hopes this comment will have Zevran saying the same things to him as he did to the others inside, only there are two of them, alone, and it is cold, no fire to warm them up… But Zevran refuses to take the bait.

“I have this scarf,” says Zevran, pulling it up a little higher.

“But your ears.”

Fenris’ tongue tingles with how much he wants to taste those ears, run a line up from collar to the space between ear and hair, mouth along that smooth surface to put his lips over the very point of it.

Zevran looks sideways at him. “Isabela tells me that you’re,” Zevran pauses, and restarts his sentence. “I do not believe I will be in Kirkwall for long.” Fenris starts to say, So?, but Zevran glances down a street. “This is my stop. Good night.”

Fenris is left blinking at the space that Zevran used to occupy. The elf has all but disappeared into the fog of the city, and Fenris shivers convulsively and curses himself for a fool.


	3. Chapter 3

“Is anyone hurt?” calls Anders as the noise of the battle settles.

“Ah!” calls Zevran. “I think I need some assistance.” The others are there at his side almost immediately.

“What is it?” asks Hawke.

“Arrow.” Zevran grimaces, and pulls aside his skirt to show tanned skin, blood catching in the soft blond hairs. The wound has closed back over the wooden shaft, so that only a splintered end pokes out. The blood is dark, too dark, and Anders curses.

“Poisoned,” he says.

“Ah, I think so. Just my luck, no? First battle with you and here I am, crying like a baby.” Only he isn’t, not at all, though he would be justified if he were, Fenris thinks. He can see another arrowhead by his feet, barbed and twisted so that it will not be removed easily. He picks it up and rolls it in his fingers. They come away with a dark, oily residue on them.

“Careful,” he says to Anders. Then, he kneels by Zevran’s side. “If you would allow me.”

“You’re no healer,” scorns the mage. Fenris ignores him, wiping his fingers on his trousers and undoing one gauntlet so that his hand is bare.

He breathes in carefully. This close, the elf is very warm, turning the snow into slush against his skin, the slush a reddish brown from blood and dirt. “This may hurt a little,” he warns, and then he glows blue and eases into the Fade. It’s hard to do this when he’s not angry, but it’s like sliding through a narrow crack in a partially opened doorway instead of sauntering through a wide archway. He focuses on his breathing and pushes his hand into Zevran’s flesh, feeling the muscles and sinew through his hand, feels the elf’s blood pulsing, his blood, his life - he draws in a breath. He finds the arrow and touches it, closes his hand carefully around it and pulls it into the Fade with him.

And then he pulls free all in a rush and gasps in a breath of true air, arrowhead falling into the snow.

“That was,” says Zevran. He touches his leg. “Thank you, my friend. That was magnificent.”

Anders and Hawke stare at him, then Hawke slaps Anders’ shoulder and the mage quickly tends to the poisoned, torn up flesh.

“Why couldn’t you have done that for me?” asks Hawke. “Remember last month, when I got that spear through my side?”

“I don’t like you,” mutters Fenris, embarrassed, somehow. “Remember?”

“Mmm,” says Hawke, studying Fenris. The elf flushes and looks away. They’re not friends. He insists on this fact, as though saying it often enough will make it true. Hawke is a mage, friends with a mage, daughter of a mage, sister of a mage. Magic ruins everything it touches, he tells himself, even as Anders draws the poison out of Zevran’s wound and closes it shut.

Zevran’s leg still hurts, and Fenris offers an arm to help him back to camp. Fenris notices a speck of blood on Zevran’s cheek.

“May I?” he asks, and leans forward before permission is quite granted to rub the mark away. It smudges, and he runs his thumb over Zevran’s face again. The other side, not the tattooed side, so he has no excuse for letting his fingers linger a little too long on the warm skin. Zevran is a little hazy from the potion Anders gave him, and grins a lopsided grin. Hawke notices this interaction and says nothing, looping her arm through Anders and marching him off ahead. Not so far that if one pair were in danger the other could rush back, but enough distance that conversation cannot be shared amongst them all.

“Are you alright?”

“You are magnificent.”

“You said that already,” says Fenris, shifting his grip on the elf’s arm so that it’s a little closer to - oh, hang it. He grunts as though holding Zevran how he is isn’t working, shifts his grip and slides his arm around the elf’s waist. His fingers mistakenly find the edge of Zevran’s tunic and brush the soft cotton undershirt that pokes out.

“Is that what Isabela meant? Magical fisting thing?”

“I, uh,” yes, but right now he wishes it were something sexier and less gruesome. 

(But if he can phase through a person and grip their heart than surely he can phase through and touch, well, other things. And how would that work? He couldn’t do it to himself, because the Fade is a particular experience that drags away all ideas of pleasure, but still. It’s a thought that’s crossed his mind occasionally. Perhaps Zevran would enjoy that particular sort of danger mixed with pleasure. With tattoos curling down his face he certainly looks the sort.)

Zevran sighs, and leans against him. “I would pay good gold to see that.” Fenris wants to say that he would do it for free, for Zevran, but he doesn’t know how to say that without it being strange, so he lets his fingers tighten slightly, and feels the snow crunch beneath his feet, and follows the mages back home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come on, we've all thought of what fun things Fenris could do with his magical fisting thing.


	4. Chapter 4

It is, Fenris has decided, infuriating.

After that little jaunt to the base of the mountain he thought that maybe things with Zevran would, well, become more things. Only they didn’t, and haven’t, and if it weren’t for the fact that Isabela is sleeping with some as-yet unnamed noble (’I don’t kiss and tell, but just let me tell you that he has a very warm bed’, because of course Isabela would shack up with someone for the winter for the sake of getting out of the Hanged Man on snowy nights) then probably Zevran would be sleeping with her, and Fenris would have even less of an idea of how to approach the situation.

Small mercies, he guesses.

He is irritated and unsettled by it. Three weeks have gone by and the best thing that has happened was his hand inside Zevran’s thigh pulling out a poisoned arrow.

He goes, like a child, to whine about it to one of two people he actually counts as a friend.

Sebastian doesn’t really know what to say.

“So, you’ve talked to him.”

“Yes,” says Fenris, holding out a book. Sebastian takes it and puts it back down on the table, and picks up another one. Fenris doesn’t even notice. Sebastian is reshelving the the Chantry library, and Fenris is not so much helping as just picking up tomes at random.

“And what was his response?”

“I know how he feels about leather,” scowls Fenris. Sebastian’s cheeks go faintly pink, which Fenris doesn’t notice for focusing on his own thoughts. “I had my hand inside,” he motions, imagining he can feel the tight muscle gripping him, the echo of blood pumping fast through the femoral vein in the aftermath of battle. “I don’t do that,” he says. He picks up another book and Sebastian doesn’t shelve it. “The number of times Hawke’s friends have been wounded and not once have I thought to assist them in such a manner. Why him?”

“You have a crush,” says Sebastian simply. “You do things for people when you feel for them like that.”

“I had a crush on you,” Fenris blurts.

For a moment Sebastian freezes, book in hand, and then he closes his mouth and slides the book into place. “And you came to the Chantry, and sang. That you still come makes me glad, that something came from it.”

“Indeed,” mutters Fenris. He notices Sebastian’s frown and hastens to add, “No, I am glad, truly. You are my friend, and I have precious few of those.”

“You have more than you think, if only you stopped treating them as though they were vipers liable to bite you the moment you turn your back. You do not need to distrust everyone. Paranoia is not safety.”

“You know my reasons for not trusting them,” snaps Fenris. “You, more than anyone.”

“Yes,” says Sebastian. “But that does not aid you with Zevran.”

“What is there to aid?” he asks. “He said himself he is leaving soon, though he does not know when.”

“All the more reason to do something soon.”

“I offered to walk him home last night,” says Fenris. It’s what brought him here. That simple offer had been brushed aside, Zevran apparently not even noticing it for what it was.

“Ah, look,” Sebastian puts a book down and sighs. “This is not Chantry advice. Chantry advice is to pray, and to ask the Maker, and He will make things work for the good of the world. If you and him are meant to be, it will be.”

“That’s bullshit,” says Fenris. He ignores a glare from a Chantry Brother searching the shelves a little beyond them. “Things happen if you make them happen.”

“So make them happen.”

“I’ve been trying,” says Fenris, and he has, but Isabela laughs at him, or is detracts attention from him, or Hawke is there with her knowing looks, or Zevran just doesn’t seem to understand what Fenris means by the words he says.

“Fenris, you’re a sword, not a dagger. If you tried flirting with me when we first met, I didn’t notice.” Fenris blushes, and scowls to try to hide it. “Just, I don’t know, shove him against a wall and have at him.” There’s a strangled gasp from the Chantry Brother. Both Sebastian and Fenris ignore him. “I don’t think he’ll complain once you realise you mean it.”


	5. Chapter 5

The Hanged Man is lively compared to the silent dusk, and they are greeted by a rowdy table.

“We’re playing strip poker!” yells Isabela.

“No,” says Sebastian, taking a seat. “We’re really not.”

“Spoil-sport. Tell him, Zev, tell him we’re playing strip-poker.”

“It’s too cold for that,” says Fenris automatically.

Isabela makes a disgruntled noise. “What was your excuse last summer?”

“That we were sweaty and gross,” says Varric. “He’s got one for every season. That’s why I keep him.”

“Prudes.” Isabela gestures widely around the table. “All of you.”

Hawke exchanges a smirk with Anders, because there are some things they are never, ever going to tell Isabela.

“I’ll buy you a drink,” offers Fenris. “Will that calm you down?” He stands up and suddenly everyone needs a drink. He’s about to ask Sebastian to help when his eyes land on another. “Zevran,” he says. “Please give me a hand.”

The bar is crowded, and Corff doesn’t notice them for several minutes.

“It is nearly too warm in here, no?” Zevran tugs at his collar, loosens the buckles and laces and pulls it down. He was wearing that scarf Isabela gave him but it’s upstairs, looped over the back of his chair. “Almost like summer, hm?” Fenris wonders how he does it, turning everything into a question. An invitation.

An invitation apparently not directed at him.

Fenris doesn’t know how to respond, again, and he pays and they take the drinks upstairs. Hawke’s friends are loud, and Fenris feels like a shadow amongst them. He watches Zevran, and he wants Zevran, and he knows he can have what he wants but he does not know how to get it without ripping it out of someone’s chest.

Sebastian nudges his side, and looks at him in askance.

“You okay?” His voice is soft, and he looks meaningfully at Zevran. The elf has got both hands on the table, using mugs to outline some battle he was involved in, and Hawke is watching with rapt attention while Isabela and Merrill keep interrupting with giggles. Fenris rolls his shoulders and shrugs.

“If not for this wine,” he tilts his mug. He can never get drunk at the Hanged Man, never able to push himself to drink more than a sociable amount of the pig’s piss they serve.

He could take a bottle of wine from his cellar, open it with his teeth and pour it over Zevran. He would lick it slowly from every crevice of his body, savouring each long moment…

“Hey, Fenris?”

His head snaps up. “What?”

“Off brooding again,” drones Varric. “What was it this time?”

“Hats,” suggests Hawke.

“Cotton trade,” says Anders, remembering the shipment they had to protect from being stolen the week before.

“My breasts,” says Isabela, pushing out her chest.

“Or mine,” offers Merrill, looking down.

“Wine,” Fenris says, honestly. “And,” he is a sword. He looks at Zevran, “tattoos.” Zevran’s eyes flicker up to meet his, but it’s only a moment, scarcely a millisecond, and Isabela interrupts.

“I have a tattoo,” says Isabela. “Wanna see?”

“We’ve all seen your damn tattoo,” says Hawke. “Put it away, and sit down. Fenris, I was trying to ask, do you want another drink?”

“It won’t be wine.”

“Corff’s been doing this mulled stuff. I’ll see if it’s any good,” she promises.

Merrill tries to leave but it starts to snow, so they play cards and drink and bully Corff into making stew.

“Fuck the weather,” says Hawke eventually. “I’m going home. Anders, you’re coming with me. Anyone else want a nice bed in Hightown tonight?”

“I’ve got my own,” says Varric.

“Yeah, and your own woman,” scowls Merrill, sinking into her chair. “Some of us are going home alone.”

“I’ll come with you!” Isabela stands up in a flurry that sends coins flying. She stares at the mess and then waves a hand. “Whatever, I’ll get my nobleman to buy me something shiny.”

“If you’re going to Hightown I might as well walk with you,” says Zevran, and Sebastian shoves Fenris so that he’s jolted into standing up. He glares at the priest, picks up his sword and follows them into the snow.

“Oh, isn’t it beautiful?” asks Anders, clutching Hawke’s hand and spinning a little, twirling her after him in a circle to watch the flakes fall from the sky.

“It’s fucking cold,” says Fenris, taking pleasure in how harsh that word sounds against the crisp air.

“Ignore him,” says Anders. “It will be nicer upstairs.” Zevran falls into step between Fenris and Isabela, adjusting his scarf so that his neck is covered from jaw to collar. He unconsciously rubs at his ears to warm them, his nose pink from the cold.

I could warm you, thinks Fenris. His fingers itch to do just that, to hold his hand and press his fingertips into his palm.

Isabela is still refusing to let them know which noble has caught her eye.

“Is he awfully ugly?” asks Hawke.

“Perhaps he never washes,” says Anders.

“Perhaps he only eats garlic.”

“And he’s missing half his teeth.”

“Oo, and the other half are rotted through!” cries Hawke.

“Ugh, children,” says Isabela. She bids them goodnight and scampers off down an alleyway that everyone knows leads to a dead end. They allow her to keep her secrets, though. She wouldn’t be Isabela without some mystery.

The snow is thick on cold stone, and mingled with fog it is difficult to see their way forward. Hawke and Anders have disappeared, leaving Fenris alone with Zevran in the empty street.

They walk, hands knocking against each other and with each bump Fenris grits his teeth and wants.

He wants so much.

“Zevran,” he growls.

“Yes?” asks Zevran, in such an innocent voice that Fenris cannot take it.

“Do tell me if this is not desired,” he growls, and he turns, grabs that blasted scarf and pulls him against his mouth, shoving their lips together so that there is no cold between them. Metal clanks loudly on metal, Fenris’ gauntlets snagging in Zevran’s hair but neither of them really notice, Zevran gasping and grining at the pain, and Fenris tugging the scarf aside so that he can bite that neck, run his tongue along the underside of his jaw and up to his ears.

“Fu-,” Fenris swallows the noise, devours his mouth, his hips pressed hard against Zevran’s. He whines, their feet stepping together and Zevran nearly toppling backwards with the force of it. “-ck,” he finishes, wall slamming into his shoulders, Fenris standing on Zevran’s boots to reach his mouth and ears - ohh, his ears.

Zevran tilts his head to allow better access, and it’s been so long since he was with an elf. Humans just don’t appreciate ears the same way, but Fenris… His teeth graze the tip, his tongue following the hard curve down and tracing the whirls down to the lobe, which he takes his his lips and then pulls with his teeth. His nose is in his ear, breath tickling and he cannot stand it.

Except.

Except.

“Wait.” He pulls his hair painfully out from amongst the spikes of Fenris’ armour. “I did not think you wanted this.”

Confusion passes across Fenris’ face, and as always a scowl follows the emotion. “Who told you that?”

“You seem too intense for a quick one in a snowy street.”

Fenris’ eyes flash. “Who says it will be quick? Or here?”

“There is a ship leaving in a fortnight. I plan to be on it. I might never return.”

Fenris doesn’t understand the hesitation. “This isn’t love, you egotist.” He is a sword, nothing delicate to him. His gauntlets draw blood where they drag across Zevran’s cold skin, and Fenris’ teeth are wolf-like in the foggy air. “I just want to fuck you. My mansion is around the corner,” says Fenris. He wants to slowly slide his hand up under that skirt, feel as the hair gets thicker and rougher, he wants to dip his head and find what every inch of Zevran tastes like.

“Then take me there,” says Zevran.


End file.
